The Calling of Heroes
by Wakka02
Summary: The Nemesis Stones stood unwavering, the physical embodiment of the spirit they represented. Neither Radiant nor Dire could suffer for the other to exist. And so the call was made - the call to the mightiest heroes the World could offer. The tales of these heroes are often left unsung; now, they shall be told.
1. The Spell-Stealer

**The Spell-Stealer**

It was all the same.

As Rubick walked toward the edge, he wondered what was wrong in his life. He had it all, and lacked for nothing. But as day after boring day drew by, the arcane mage became increasingly aware of an emptiness in his life. It had not been much of a bother at first, but now he could no longer ignore the humming of dissatisfaction that he felt, echoing at the very base of his soul.

He looked out across the balcony. Far, far below him, the light of several houses twinkled in the distance. The building he stood on was the tallest, and grandest in the city; it was, after all, owned by him. He would suffer for nothing less than the best. But even the grandeur of his everyday life seemed mundane now, and not even the wondrous trappings of his household could take away the ache that gnawed at him. Rubick sighed, and made a gesture of command, almost negligently.

Behind him, his would-be assassin moved. The man was struggling in panic, gibbering in terror; truly, he had no sense of style at all. Rubick was disgusted by him. In his mind's eye, he pictured the man floating, high above the city, suspended by nothing but the mage's powers of telekinesis. He willed the image to life. The assassin, all shrouded in black, was nearly invisible against the night sky, save for the cries for mercy and the frantic kicking as he struggled against his invisible bonds. Pathetic.

As Rubick turned away from the wretched sight, he let go of his mental grip. A cry of despair followed the spellcaster as he walked away from the balcony, back toward his room. It was not long before the cry was cut off abruptly with a crash, and all was still once again. Rubick sighed. The twelfth, he counted silently to himself. All of them had been the same. The silent stalking in the day, the watchful eyes that followed him everywhere, the slow wait till dark, the blade that flashed in the moonlight after he had retired, the downward plunge that sought blood.

Except that blood was never shed.

It had thrilled him, at first. That people would deem him worthy of killing had been a heady pleasure, even as he force-choked his attempted murderer to death. It grew tiresome, however, after the third attempt; by the fourth, he was wondering if they were trying at all. But when the sixth had proven to be an assassin of some skill and renown, he began to wonder if it was not just him that was too powerful for the world's own good.

The seventh had been somewhat of an interest, the first of them to ever consider using the arcane arts against him. The killer himself had no true magic, relying on the rare and expensive Illusion's Dust to confound him. It almost worked too, had Rubick not been immersing himself in the same substance in the day's experiments, and therefore was more sensitive to the dust's use. Still, it brought a momentary rush to the mage, that an adversary would bring him any degree of challenge at all.

Rubick sat down at his table, a magnificently-carved piece, the finest gold could buy. He pulled a piece of parchment closer to him, something he had written months ago but had never dared to send. He looked at it again, reading it word for word, making sure no mistake could be derived from its contents. He had started this project right after the eighth assassination attempt, researching the target's magical prowess, his habits, his strengths, his weaknesses. The arcanist had selected his target carefully, and was certain he could best him in battle. But one could never be certain.

The target was a Magus, after all.

The title 'Magus' was given to none but the best of their craft. Only those who could cast the most powerful of spells was granted the honour by the Council itself. The very presence of the Council was one not widely known, yet the title Magus was always revered and honoured before all else. The first Magus was said to be a Guardian, he who the elements themselves raged at his call and beck. The meaning of 'Guardian' had been lost in the centuries, but the title 'Magus' was not.

Rubick wanted the thrill of battle again, wished to feel the adrenaline rush pulse through his veins once more. In a split second's decision, he picked up the letter of challenge he had painstakingly written, and gathered his will. The parchment glowed green, then darkened, and in a flash it was gone. Rubick clasped his hands together, savouring this one moment, wanting to remember this feeling of fearful anticipation. Then he pushed his chair back and stood. He had to prepare.

As dawn broke, Rubick stood at his balcony again, watching the sun rise. A bird squawked in the distance, breaking the chill silence. From within the heavy robe he wore, he drew forth his combat mask; it had been many years since he had last worn it. He put it on, and focused his mind again. The same bird squawked once more, and Rubick vanished.

* * *

When he re-materialized on the mortal plane, a lush green field surrounded Rubick. He looked around, taking in the sight; he remembered the laughter of children, joyfully tumbling in the grass. He knew this land; he had grown up in a village near here. A village that was now gone, forgotten in history's embrace. He closed his eyes, remembering.

"So."

Rubick's eyes snapped open. Before him stood a man who looked no older than thirty, yet Rubick knew that his true age far exceeded that number. He wore a robe which was similar to Rubick's, but a dark, rich green in the color of his element, the Earth. Power pulsed around the man; there was no mistaking his intent. It brought a chill to Rubick's spine, and the hackles on his neck began to stand.

"So," the man repeated himself, "You would kill a Magus. As would a great deal of other young, foolish mages, but none have succeeded. And what makes you think you will?"

Rubick made no reply. His mind was working frantically, thinking back through all the battle plans he had made, mentally walking through each step.

"I have heard the rumours," he continued. "The unbeatable Rubick. The man with many enemies, yet none of them have managed to kill you. Yet. And that fame has grown to your head, I presume. For why else would an intelligent man such as yourself attempt the impossible?"

"I would hardly classify what I'm doing as 'impossible', Magus Gevils."

"Ah! You would call me Magus, would you?" Gevils laughed, but the laughter did not quite reach his eyes. Rubick smiled behind his mask, and simply shrugged. Gevils' laughter subsided.

"Yes, you would call me Magus, but yet you would kill me. Oh lad, you presume too much of yourself! Go back, my boy. You do not need to die this day."

Rubick shook his head slowly. "I have not come to run away, old man. I come to claim your title."

Gevils sighed deeply. "I tried to warn you, my boy. I gave you fair chance to turn around and save yourself. That you will not, saddens me. Tell me. Of all the mages that have threatened to kill a Magus, none of succeeded. Why do you think that is so?" Rubick kept silent. Sensing no reply, his adversary began to pace. "Is it because none have yet attained the power that we, as Magus possess? Is it due to their lack of experience, the sense one hones only on the battlefield? Or perhaps it is due to their own rash decisions in battle, that lead to their downfall? Why, it might easily be any of these. For you see, our challengers have always been the young and foolhardy." The Magus stopped abruptly.

"But perhaps, it is also because when you challenge one of us, you challenge us all."

The air around Gevils began to shimmer, and one by one other people popped into existence. Rubick's senses peaked; as each new enemy appeared, power fell around him like undulating waves. When the last man appeared, fully seven opponents stood, staring at him gravely.

"Well, young Rubick? Will you yet turn tail and flee? For we will not strike you should you embrace the course of wisdom," Gevils asked.

Rubick gripped his arcane staff tighter, saying words he felt, yet feared to say at the same time.

"Bring it."

* * *

Before he knew what was happening, Rubick was surrounded by an intense wall of flame, encircling him and choking him with smoke. He whirled quickly, but the flames extended all the way around him, giving him no course of escape. His magical senses tingled, and he glanced up; above him, a giant spear of ice was falling, gathering in size as it went. He concentrated quickly, and for an instant the enormous icicle froze in place. He could not see his enemies, and the massive weight of the obstacle weight on his mind. Choosing the location where he last saw the Magi, he brought the large ice block crashing down.

The flames died, and Rubick ran for it, hoping the smoke would give him cover. Roots burst from the ground where he stood only moments before, seeking to crush the life out of anything they caught. He reached the edge of the smokescreen, and saw Gevils with his hands on the ground, shouting that he had missed the target and warning the others to be ready. The other Magi had fanned out in a circle, their eyes scanning for the wizard. Rubick knew then what he had to do. It was a nasty little tactic, but for some reason it pleased him.

He focused his will on Gevils, and stealthily invaded the Magus' mind. As he thought, the framework of the roots spell the Earth Magus had just cast was still easily in reach. He studied it, remembering how it was casted, and quickly memorized how to cast it. At that moment, a shout to his left brought his attention; whipping about, a man was gathering lightning in his fist. He dove quickly to the side, narrowly avoiding the bolt of lightning magic, and quickly cast a magic bolt of his own. As his own magic struck his target, he twisted the image of the bolt in his mind's eye, and the arcane missile leaped again to the Magus next to the first. Both men shouted in surprise, and were blasted on their backs.

The next moment, a projectile hit Rubick. His heavy robe absorbed most of the impact, but it still sent him stumbling back several feet. He looked in the direction of the attack, only to get another hit right in the face; the missile exploded, and for an instant he expected to be burned before he realized that it was a ball of compressed water which had hit him. His combat mask took most of the hit, but he went down on his knees anyway. The woman who had casted the Aqua Bomb was gathering more water into both hands, forming a bomb easily twice as large as the ones before. This was the killing blow, Rubick suddenly knew.

Quickly, Rubick brought both hands to the ground as if to support himself while calling the Roots spell to his mind. As the woman raised her hands above her head to hurl the deadly bomb at Rubick, roots burst from the ground and entwined her body. One snaked up and grabbed her arm; she shouted in shock, but the momentum of the spell was too much to stop. Rubick brought his focus on the one tendril that had ensnared her arm, and jerked it toward her left; the ball of water went hurtling, wide of the Magus' intended target but spot on Rubick's.

As the ball exploded, the twin cries told Rubick that he had succeeded even before he turned to look at it. The two men he had injured earlier had taken the brunt of the woman's attack. The Thunder Magus cradled a broken arm, while the other lay unmoving on the grass. Behind him, the woman sought desperately to free herself. Rubick turned to her and tightened the noose around her neck, hoping to crush her windpipe-

-and ducked just in time to dodge a punch from Gevils. The air pressure from the blow was impressive, Rubick silently noted; it was a punch that would have knocked his head clean off his shoulders if he had not seen it coming. As the punch flew past, Rubick saw that he had encased himself in stone. Gevils swung again, but Rubick was ready for it this time; he caught the punch in his mind's net, and sent Gevils hurtling aside. Turning, he saw a man seeking to free the woman he had caught with what looked like a wind blade. Rubick's mind extended toward the man, but before he could do anything, he found himself once again sealed off in a ring of fire. This time, however, the fire rapidly closed around the wizard.

Rubick quickly changed his mind's target, and invaded the woman's thoughts instead. He found the framework of the Aqua Bomb with ease, and started gathering power as soon as he had memorized it. Tossing his bomb toward one side of the ring, he ran even before it had touched the ground; the bomb exploded and Rubick dove through the gap just as a hail of icicles pierced through flames. There was an angry shout.

"What in the Maker's name are you doing, Malcora? That was _your_ Aqua Bomb, I saw it happen!"

"What are you talking about? I did no such thing!"

"I know what I saw!"

Rubick grinned to himself as he came to his feet. In his peripheral vision, he saw the now-freed Malcora arguing heatedly with two others; he could only surmise that they had been responsible for the ice and fire. Looking up, Gevils was once again on his knees, bringing his hands to the floor. Rubick dove again to avoid the seeking tendrils, and himself cast the same Roots spell, this time targeting Fire and Ice. As the snaking roots shot forth, the two gave angry cries of shock.

"This is betrayal!"

"We won't stand for this!"

An armour of fire formed around one of the two, and the roots abruptly froze on the other; frozen and burned, the roots fell away. Rubick stood quickly, readying his shields for another onslaught of magical power, but the two instead turned on Gevils. Gevils cried out as he found himself suddenly encased in fire, and quickly hardened himself; but as he was about to burst out from the ring, the Ice Magus had finally found its target. Long slivers of ice protruded suddenly from Gevils' feet, piercing through the stone and drawing blood, embedding themselves deep within the earth.

"What are you two doing?! Have you gone mad?!" Gevils roared as he fell backward. The Magi of fire and ice suddenly looked aghast, shocked at what they'd done, but Rubick had no time for them. Pushing his mind into the Thunder Magus' broken thoughts, Rubick pushed past the waves of pain in his head and found the Thunderbolt spell that had been casted on him earlier. With all the Magi bickering amongst themselves, Rubick found adequate time to charge both fists in electricity before they noticed him. Fire and Ice both cried out in pain as Rubick sent the lethal bolts flying toward their backs, and they fell as one.

Realizing too late what was happening, the woman named Malcora and the last Magus placed their attention on Rubick. A strong wind buffeted Rubick, immobilizing him while Malcora began to cast, but Rubick's spell was already flying. The same bolt of magical energy he had cast earlier streaked through the air and struck both Magi, the force of it tossing them backward as if they were rag dolls. Placing both hands on the ground, Rubick summoned once again the Roots spell, and as he turned away, the sound of crushing bones and cries of pain filled the air, the former carrying on long after the latter had ceased.

The Thunder Magus was still on the ground, moaning and cradling his broken arm, when he found himself suddenly being lifted into the air. He began to gibber in panic, and magical energy formed around him, thrashing against the invisible bonds that held him. In Rubick's mind, he pictured the man being slammed on the ground, and willed it to be so. Thunder's cries for mercy were abruptly silenced as he was brought head-first to the ground.

The whole battle had not lasted five minutes, yet Rubick was nearly spent of both mana and physique. Still, it wasn't over yet. Rubick turned, and loomed over the struggling Gevils, who was still trying to remove the icicles from his feet. As Rubick approached, Gevils gave up on that, and painfully stood. The two men stared at each other for a while. Finally, Gevils spoke.

"So. You would kill a Magus."

"It seems I have killed several."

"So it does. Tell me, how does that feel?"

Rubick kept silent. He simply stood, remembering every bit of the battle. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins, and he heard everything through a muffled barrier. His magical senses still tingled, and his breath came hard and fast. Sifting his memories, Rubick found the spell he had been looking for. As he began to charge his Aqua Bomb in two hands as he had seen Water do, Rubick answered.

"Exhilarating."

* * *

Rubick stood in a dark hall, surrounded by darkness. Above him, eleven lights shone on silhouttes against the light. The room was chill, but Rubick was flushed warm from triumph. It was a week after the battle, yet he could still remember everything that had happened as if it had happened five minutes ago. The shadow in the middle was saying something, but Rubick had lost track of what he had been saying long ago. Instead he closed his eyes and submersed himself in the memories of the battle, reliving the excitement and rush over and over again.

He snapped to attention as he heard his name being called. "Yes," he answered. The figure spoke.

"You are now a Magus, and you shall be the Spell-Stealer, enemy of all that is arcane."

* * *

As the Magus materialized back in his room, he looked around. It would all have to be re-decorated, of course, to something befitting his new title. He prowled through the building, making mental notes of what to purchase and where-

Rubick cocked his head. A nagging thought kept pushing at his mind, almost as if there was a telepathic link, but not quite. He opened his mind cautiously to it. A forest glade, a beautiful place of greenery and life, and at its center a wondrous stone of power. It drew him, called to him, and he could sense its urgency and its need. It was in danger, he knew, and the foes that it faced were nothing like that he had faced in his past. Rubick knew, also, that the excitement he sought, the thrill of a life and death battle could be found there. That was all the enticement he needed.

Donning his battle cloak and mask, Rubick walked to his balcony once more. Staring out in the distance, his mind flew far and wide, searching for the glade he had been shown. It was not long before he found it, and once again Rubick focused his energies.

The Spell-Stealer answered the call.

* * *

Author's Note: This was written based on a whim. I was reading the DotA 2 biographies when I suddenly felt like expanding it. I do not know if I will write more of this stuff, because classes are starting and all, but if I ever get the inspiration to again, I will. See ya.


	2. The Viper

**The Viper**

The night was dark, chill with the bitter cold of winter. The sky was overcast, with the occasional lightning bolt searing the sky; it would not be long before a harsh storm would rage across the land. Everyone knew to stay indoors; everyone, except for one man.

He was robed in a deep, green hue, his features obscured by the hood, protecting his face against the elements. His hands were raised, placed perpendicular to his body while he chanted in a strange tongue. In front of him, a sinister magic circle glowed. The bite of winter was fierce that night, yet the man felt nothing, kept warm by the magic of his work.

As the spell continued, the man's chants grew faster and more furious. The intensity of the light coming from the circle increased, until it was near blinding to look at. The spell neared its end, and the wizard raised both hands high above his head. With a final command that came out as a shout, he brought both hands down sharply.

The light of the magic circle expanded to fill the area, and as it died, a dark shadow slowly coalesced in the center of circle. The wizard stared intently at it, his eyes unblinking, as the creature he had summoned rapidly took shape. Its body was long and slender, ending in what looked like a triple-pronged fin, while two powerful wings beat steadily at its side. Colours began to show, and the beast took on a dark green shade much like what its summoner wore, streaked with lighter shades of poisonous green. As it unlidded its four eyes, Kazam began to laugh.

"I have done it! I have summoned a Netherdrake!"

* * *

The Viper opened his eyes to a strange sight. He had been hunting for his clan, deep in the luminous caverns of the Nether Reaches, when he had suddenly been enveloped in a bright light. It had blinded him, and allowed his prey to escape; when he could see again, he was in a completely different place. He was high up above the ground, at a dizzying height he had never experienced before. There was... something, standing on two legs in front of him, something that he had never seen in his long lifetime.

"Where... issss thissss?" The Viper hissed the question, its confusion and alarm evident.

The Thing in front of him stared, goggle-eyed. "It speaks! Simply remarkable!"

"Ansssswer my question!" Stupid Thing. The figure in front of him coughed, and drew itself up to its full (but unimpressive) height.

"I am Kazam, wizard and conjurer supreme, and you are my summoned familiar! We now stand - or, er, at least I stand, you're flying, of course - in my tower, and you shall obey my every command, for I am your master and you are my familiar. Do you understand?" The last three words were spoken slowly and he attempted to make some form of exaggerated gestures, as if the Viper was too stupid to understand it. He whipped his tail angrily, affronted.

"Do not underesssstimate me, fool!" The Thing named Kazam looked alarmed at the anger in his voice, and took a quick step back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" Irritated, the Viper cut the Thing off. "I did not assssk about that! Where am I? Thissss is not the Nether Reachessss!"

"Oh, no, of course not. This is the World! Well, it's _a_ world, obviously, but that's not what I meant..." the Thing began to launch into a long ramble about the World and its mechanics, and the Viper could hardly be bothered to listen to it any longer. It pondered its situation. This was obviously not the Nether Reaches, nor the caves which the Netherdrakes called home. In fact, this place seemed like a completely different world from where the Viper had been just a few minutes ago. And to be able to summon him from across such a distance, the Thing in front of him must be a being of considerable power. Being able to work some lesser magics himself, the Viper had a healthy respect for the arcane and those who wielded it. Caution, he decided, was the necessary course of action here.

"...and that's where you are, Netherdrake. Bound to me by my enchantments, in the World." The Thing concluded its speech. The Viper was insulted. "And you are the one who ssssummoned me? You, seek to ensssslave me? I am a Lord of the Nether Reachessss! Know your placccce!" Forgetting what he had decided before, the Viper lunged for the Thing, only to cry out in agony. Beneath him, a magic circle flared, binding him to its boundaries. The Thing had stumbled backward, but when it saw that the Viper was unable to deal him bodily harm, he began to laugh.

"No, _you_ should know your place! _I_ am your master now!"

The Viper ceased its struggles. Clearly, the power this... 'wizard' wielded was considerable; there would be no escaping it. He lidded his eyes and bowed its deference. "Assss you say... masssster." As the wizard began to crow in success, the Viper seethed inside. He would follow and obey... for now. When he had learned the secrets of the wizard's power, there would be hell to pay.

* * *

The days passed, and the Viper stayed in the wizard's captivity. Most of the time, the Netherdrake spent its time locked up in a cage, walled with bars of a strange metal. The cage itself was small, barely large enough for the Viper. He was unable to flap his wings, and the amount of movement he had available limited at best. On the floor of the cage was the same magic circle that had confined him when he first appeared in this World; clearly, this Kazam did not trust him any more than during their first meeting.

There were days when the wizard studied him intensely, simply looking and marvelling at him. Then there were days when the wizard would call some of his friends, and those were the days that Viper came to dread. The Things brought instruments, sharp metallic tools that they used to poke and prod painfully at his flesh. Once, they had attempted to slice open his skin in order to find out what was underneath; at the first touch of his corrosive skin, the blade hissed and cracked.

Still, the knife had done its work; a gash opened and green, thick blood welled from the cut. The Viper had opened his mouth then, hissing angrily and spitting a gob of acidic saliva at the culprit. The projectile had been nowhere near its mark, but when it struck a wooden table, the furniture had dissolved in mere seconds. The Things had shouted in alarm and panic then, and the Viper was left alone for the rest of that day. The Things never tried to cut him after that.

The wizard, the Viper quickly discovered, had a mean, sadistic streak to him, despite his daft appearance. He would test his spells on the Netherdrake, immobile and easy target that he was, regardless of what the spells did to him. The Viper endured days of magical torture as the wizard tossed fireballs and lightning bolts his way. Sometimes, the wizard sought to break his mind, invading the Viper's consciousness and attempting to sift through his memories. He learned to evade the wizard's rough swipes at his mind, and after several unsuccessfully attempts at searching for his thoughts, the wizard eventually came to believe that the Netherdrake was a mindless creature of no intellect.

It was not long before the Viper realized that the wizard was not quite as 'supreme' as he had claimed to be during their first encounter. The magical attacks did not sting all that much, most of it being absorbed by his thick, protective skin, and his mental assaults were feeble and weak. He eventually learned from a conversation between the wizard and one of his friends that the magic circle that bound him was something that he had spent years researching, and was not even something he could reproduce alone. The Viper's anger intensified. It was the ultimate insult as a Lord, being held by a lowly being of such pathetic competency! It was infuriating.

The Viper decided that enough was enough. Whatever cantrips this 'wizard' was capable of were clearly not worth his time, and it was high time for him to leave the daft fool. Little did the Thing know that the magic circle below him had long since lost much of its potency, and it would not be long before the Viper would be able to break free of his cage.

* * *

It was, once again, a dark and cold night. Kazam sat at his makeshift table (his previous one had been destroyed in an unfortunate accident involving his Netherdrake), and perused the parchment he held intently. It was a report of the remarkable tenacity of his Netherdrake; no matter what spells he had casted on the beast, it had shrugged it off, seemingly without harm. Even his most powerful of spells, the Fireball, the one which had won him the Wizard of the Year award in his town hadn't so much as singed the skin of his familiar.

_Flap._

Of course, this only meant that he had acquired an extremely powerful familiar. Yes, its very presence had elevated his position and standing amongst his peers by quite a considerable margin. They had thought him daft and weak. Him! Daft and weak! Kazam snorted. Now they saw his power!

_Flap._

Perhaps, once he had successfully tamed the beast, he could even become a Royal Mage in the city. That was the highest achievement anyone could hope for; what else could a mage hope to attain, but to serve the king under the Archmage himself? Kazam shivered in delight. It should not be difficult. The Netherdrake was powerful, but it had no mind; the mage was certain of it. He had spent many long hours searching for its mind, looking for a way to control it, but it had proven to be mindless, a being of power but low intellect. It would be easy to sway it to his cause.

_Flap. Flap. Flap._

"What _is_ that irritating sound?" Irritably, Kazam set down his reading glasses and his parchment. How could anyone possibly concentrate when there was this weird, flapping sound behind him? It was almost as if-

Kazam stopped cold as he heard the hissing voice that should not have been there.

"Greetingssss, masssster."

* * *

The Viper was almost as surprised as his 'Master' was when it shot to its feet with a cry of shock. Certainly he had made enough noise when he had melted the bars of his cage, slithered his way out from under the collapsed roof (which was a double insult, slithering about as if he was a newly hatched eggling!) and made his way to the Thing's lair. Surely it must have heard him as he spat the gobs of saliva that had dissolved the doors that had stood between him, or as he flapped his giant wings to hover right behind it. But it still feigned surprise when he had confronted it. Why was that?

The only reason that the Viper could think of was that his 'Master' wanted to lower his guard with an act. Did it perhaps have some trap of some sort, or a spell it had never shown the Netherdrake before? But even as these thoughts of caution emerged, the Thing tripped over its own chair and scrabbled away on its hands and knees. The Viper's estimate of it dropped as he watched the ungainly sight.

"S-stay away! How did you get out? That cage was supposed to be i-impetrenable!" The words came tumbling out of the Thing's mouth as it scrambled to its feet. The Viper hissed.

"You have long held me prissssoner, fool. Ever since you kept me in that prisssson, I have been obsssserving you, waiting for my chancccce. Surely you musssst have seen thissss day coming!"

The 'wizard' shook his head fiercely. "No, it's not possible. You couldn't have broken out. This isn't happening. You're not smart enough for that!"

The Viper roared in fury. "Not ssssmart enough? Not ssssmart enough?! You have inssssulted me for the lasssst time! Now, you pay!" The Viper lunged, the predator leaping for its prey. The Thing shouted in horror, and began slinging balls of fire repeatedly at the Viper's body as it backed away. The Viper ignored them, the magical flames dealing next to no damage to his body, until a lucky shot struck him in the face and exploded. It did no true damage, but it did blind him. The Viper roared again, halting his deadly advance. When the smoke cleared, the Thing was running for the doorway.

"NO!" The Viper screamed. He would not be denied his vengeance! Beating his wings powerfully, he followed the wizard out of the room, only to see a corner of its robe disappearing round the stairway. The Viper stopped, knowing that the narrow, circling corridor would defeat his need for speed, and only make him an easier target for whatever attacks the wizard could be planning. He pondered his options.

* * *

"This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening." The words were almost a chant as Kazam sprinted down his tower's stairway. The spell that bound the cursed beast must have worn off, and he couldn't cast the spell again alone. He would seek out his friends, yes, and he would show that monster who was really in charge here. And then it would be sorry!

Blood was pounding in his ears as he reached the foot of the stairwell. Stopping once to catch his breath, he strained his ears for any signs of chase from the drake. Not hearing any, he heaved a sigh of relief. The dumb brute must have been stuck in the staircase so far up, the sounds of the struggles couldn't even reach him. Hah!

Oh, but he had to make haste. The Netherdrake wouldn't stay stuck forever, and he needed to bring his friends here before it escaped. He was confident he could hunt it back down again, but he would rather not go through all that trouble. He started off at a run; so what if he was past sixty? His body was still in prime shape, thank you very much!

Kazam burst out from the tower's front door, setting an unerring course for Kalios' tower. He had not gone five steps, however, when a shrill cry from above froze his blood and his footsteps.

* * *

The Viper hovered in the air above when he saw a tiny figure leave the tower at a run. Just as he thought, the Thing was going to find its friends so that they could bind him again. That wasn't happening as far as he was concerned. Folding his wings back, the Viper dove, giving voice to his bloodlust as he went. The Thing had frozen in shock, and as it looked up, the Viper crashed heavily into the ground, pinning the Thing underneath his body. It screamed then, a sweet cry of agony as the corrosive touch of his skin ate and burned away at the Thing's pale flesh.

"Know thissss, little creature. You have crossssed a Lord of the Nether Reachessss, and none have lived to tell the tale!" Opening his jaws wide, the Viper spat the most toxic of poisons he had into the Thing's eyes. The screams that were ripped from the Thing's mouth was nothing like before, but to the Netherdrake it was the music of revenge. To the Viper's dismay, it was not too long before the Thing shuddered and lay still, its face contorted into one of intense pain and disbelief. The Viper held the corpse for a moment longer, hoping it was simply pretending, but then accepted the fact that his prey was dead. With a snort of disgust, the Viper rose clear of the cadaver. It had ended too quickly; he would not make the same mistake, the next time.

The Viper raised his head and looked around him. Lacking the knowledge to return to his world, this place would be his new home. The Viper raised his head to the sky and roared. As his echoes slowly faded away into the night, the Viper flapped his wings and gained altitude.

This World had a new master now.

* * *

As the Viper left the tower behind, he constantly scanned the world around him. Everything was new; accustomed to the damp depths of the caverns, he was still new to this world and its secrets. Below him, a pack of animals ranged for their own hunt. One of them saw him, silhoutted against the moon, and lifted its head in a howl. The challenge was unmistakable; the impertinent creature had to be taught a lesson. Sleeking his wings back once again, the Viper plummeted with the shrill cry of the hunt.

He slammed into the animal with such force that it died on impact; the rest of the pack scattered, realizing this was an enemy that they stood no chance against. The Netherdrake began to tear chunks off the creature, tossing the bloody scraps of meat into the air and gulping it down. He lost himself in the savoury taste of eating; this was nothing like what the caverns had to offer him. Yet, in the middle of his feast, the Viper paused.

An image came into his mind, one that struck to depths of the Viper's soul. In the image, the land was blighted and dark, and no creature wandered into the open without casting a fearful, skyward glance first. The land itself acknowledged him as the true master; all that and more, he was promised. But for that to happen, threats had to be eliminated first. There was an entity out there that would see his reign given an end. The stone known as the Radiant Ore had to be destroyed first. He lifted his head once more and let loose his own roar of challenge, then took flight.

The Viper answered the call.

* * *

Author's Note: And this chapter goes out to coincidencless, for specially requesting that the Viper's story be told. Truthfully this was a difficult chapter, because according to the biography there really isn't much to tell. Still, I made do with what I had; I hope you readers will forgive the lack of battle scenes in this one.

Thank you for being so supportive of the first chapter in the first place; I would most certainly not have written this one if not for all of you. But I'm still on the fence if I should write more or not. If I get the time and the inspiration, I probably will, but seeing as to how each chapter takes me several hours to write I don't think I'll be able to devote the energies to it. No promises ya.

Hope you enjoyed it!


	3. The Lycanthrope

**Lycanthrope**

The jarring jangle of chains filled the city streets, punctuated rhythmically by the heavy clank of metal footfalls as the procession proceeded through the Royal Road. Those were the only sounds as the contingent of armored guards marched slowly through the streets, thronged around two captives captured in their wooden prison. There was not another soul in sight; the citizens of the once-grand city had long since abandoned it, and those who still stayed knew better than to reveal themselves.

One of the prisoners was unconscious, battered and bruised, lying sideways on the floor the contraption that bound the two. His breathing was heavy and laboured, but present; the other prisoner took comfort in that. Despite all that had happened, his son yet lived.

Yet, he had no idea how long that would remain a truth.

Laboriously, the man stood, nursing his left side. A rib had broken there, causing his flesh to swell painfully against the padding of his armor. A long gash in his right calf meant he would never run again; not that he expected to be able to run anywhere after all this had ended. Grunting in pain with every step, the man limped to the side of his cage, where the moonlight illuminated him in full.

He was a tall man, well-groomed and handsome, with a buff physique that told the lie to his age. The streaks of grey in his side whiskers and hair was the only evidence of his true years, yet even those had a sense of dignity and power to them. His armor was broken in some places and splattered with blood in others, but the ornate crest on his left breastplate was still intact. He reached across with his left hand, long stripped of his gauntlet, and traced the howling wolf that adorned his armor slowly. That was yet another small comfort; no matter what had happened, here was proof that he, Bane Ambry the Fourth, was yet the Count of the distinguished House Ambry.

Bane transferred his right-handed grip to the bars of the cage, clutching at the sturdy wooden bars as if pure strength alone could have crushed it to pieces. But that was not his purpose; he sought only to vent his frustration and anger. He knew that his fight had been lost, but he could not understand why. They had had the element of surprise. They had vastly outnumbered the number of men in the city, and all of their reports had concurred with the conclusion that victory should have been inevitable.

They had been ready. But still they had lost.

* * *

"Are the men ready?"

Loire bowed low. "As you instructed, my lord. The scouts have returned; all is quiet within the city. There is no sign of alarm, and everything goes on as usual behind the walls. Or, what passes as usual these days." The last was said with a sorrowful shake of the grizzled veteran's head. Count Bane knew all too well what that meant.

The kingdom of Slom had once been great; the late king Salimas had been a wise and just ruler, and had brought about the kingdom's golden age. Under his rule, the kingdom had prospered. Being a country with limited resources to call its own, the King had shrewdly decided to capitalize on the one advantage Slom had: it was positioned in just the right location, literally sandwiched between the three neighbouring, richer kingdoms. Instead of showing himself as an enemy, he opened his borders freely to Slom's neighbours, even building roads to ease access. As a result, trade flourished; Slom's coffers swelled, and the kingdom's future seemed bright. The capital of Slom had been the kingdom's pride and joy with its sapphire spires shining a dazzling azure, a hub of trade and commerce. But all that came to an abrupt end, when King Salimas fell to a mysterious malady that took his life as suddenly as it had manifested.

King Salimas II was nothing like the ruler his father was. Spoiled since birth, he had developed a fancy to various pleasure inducing drugs at a very young age, and was fascinated by the "wonders of the arcane", as the addled monarch was oft to put it. The old King's officials were replaced one by one by those who gained the new monarch's fancy; eventually, the kingdom's day to day matters were left ignored, as the corrupt officials spent the kingdom's treasury on their own base desires. Towns under the King's own jurisdiction became overrun with crime and strife, while the seven lords struggled to keep their own towns and cities afloat as the monarchy raised taxes year after year. The kingdom's capital itself had lost its own energy; the spires still stood tall, but they no longer gleamed a bright sapphire, rather a dull blue which somehow cast a shadow over the city. Count Ambry himself had gone to the edge of the ridge and looked out at the city in the distance, and had ridden away seething in anger.

"Then tonight, we shall set things right." Count Bane rose from his seat in the tent, careful not to upset the mug of water he had placed near his map. Reaching down, he picked up the heavy helmet that had serviced him throughout the years; he had not thought he would ever have need of it again. "Gather the men. I will speak to them. And send my son to me." Loire bowed in acquiesence and left the tent, barking orders as he went.

Left alone in the tent, the aged Count circled the immense map spread on his table, studying it from every possible angle. In his mind's eye, he saw the battles taking place; he weighed the possibilities, saw the counter-measures to his plans, developed strategies to react, came up with other events that could circumvent his strategems-

"You wished to see me, Father?" The voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Banehallow Ambry lifted the flap of the war tent and entered, pausing at the door to salute respectfully to the man he called both Lord and Father. Count Bane stopped his pacing, and turned to face his son. The Count was a tall man, but his son was yet taller, with refined features befitting the most royal of bloodlines. But tonight, the suave, handsome young lad who had charmed many of the ladies at his court was gone, replaced by a warrior whose cold determination burned fiercely behind his deep black eyes.

"Yes, my son," Returning the salute, Count Ambry gestured to one of the camp-chairs in the tent, and himself took one. "The time for the attack draws near, and it is my wish that you lead the men on a flanking unit, to lead the reserves into battle should we need it." Banehallow began an angry protest, but the Count held up his hand. "No, my son, hear me. I do not do this to keep you from harm's way; I do this because yours is the only mind I trust. Lieutenant Loire is already leading the archers; he is needed there. I have none other who can take on this task. Will you do it?"

Banehallow struggled internally for a moment, but then bowed his head in assent. "As you command, Father. I ask only that you leave command of the reserve unit to me; I shall lead the men and join the fray as I deem fit."

"You have my confidence in this, my son." Count Ambry stood, and embraced his heir in a rare show of emotion. Banehallow clasped his father in return, and they shared a brief moment together. With a sigh, the elder Ambry released his son. "And now, I must see to the main issue at hand."

Count Bane left the tent, his son falling into place behind him. His soldiers, 6,000 strong, stood gathered in a huge mass of glinting steel in the firelight. His trusted lieutenant, Loire, stood at the head of the army, and saluted his lord as Count Bane climbed the few steps on the makeshift podium that had been built for this very purpose.

* * *

The cage jolted, sending the Count stumbling against the walls and his son rolling halfway across the tiny cage. Gasping in pain, Bane clutched his side, fighting the red haze that sought to overcome his consciousness. As his vision cleared and the pain subsided slightly, he hastened to his son's side to check if he was alright. Despite the pain that the jolt must have caused him, Banehallow did not stir; instead, his breathing simply grew quicker and more laboured. Bane worried about him; if he did not get any medical aid soon, there was no doubt that his son would perish. But trapped as they were, there was no hope of that at all.

Death. Count Ambry knew that it was a possible consequence of his actions, and he accepted it without fear. It was not death that he could not accept, but the fact that he had failed; he had failed his country, failed the late King Salimas, failed his family. Undoubtedly, the King would exact his wrath on not just his soldiers but the entire line of Ambry as well. He clasped his head in his hands, wondering where the battle had gone wrong.

* * *

The battle was going wrong.

Even as Count Bane had drawn forth his blade and held it aloft, screaming the war cry that would be the trigger to his assault, the city gates burst open, and armored men began to spill out of the city. The shock of the sudden assault registered in every man; none of them had expected the enemy to be prepared and ready to meet them. They had been prepared to begin their assault on the city walls; the archers were not ready to fire, and the ones at the foremost were not the heavy knights but the more lightly-armored soldiers who held the battering rams and scaling ladders. That one moment of shock had proven to be fatal, as a sheet of arrows rose from the city and rained death upon these front ranks, killing most of the unshielded soldiers outright. Panic and mayhem ensued, as the heavy knights fought to get to the front lines while the light soldiers scrambled to get out of their way. A second wave of arrows descended, this time with minimal casualties as the heavy knights raised their shields as one to fend off the projectiles, but it had served its purpose; so focused on the initial onslaught of arrows were they that the knights were caught unaware as the wave of armored men crashed into the Ambrian knights. Battle was joined, but the House of Ambry had already lost a third of its forces.

Count Bane roared, and swung his heavy broadsword downward in a heavy double-handed arc that sheared through a man's armor and flesh easily, cleaving him nearly in two. Spinning quickly, he let the point of his sword slam into the grass, and used it as an anchor to deliver a powerful kick to another man's mid-section, sending him stumbling backward into the waiting blade of one of his knights. With a powerful heave, he brought his sword out of the mud in time to parry yet another enemey's blade. Around him, his knights fought ferociously, and it was clear that the Ambrian knights had the upper hand in terms of numbers and combat expertise. Trumpets from within the city blared, and the King's Soldiers began a hasty retreat while yet a third rain of arrows rose from the city.

"Defend yourselves!" came the cry, as the knights brought up their shields once more to defend against the attack. When the last of the arrows had fallen from the sky, the enemy forces were still on the retreat. Count Ambry spun to his flagbearer. "Raise the red! Tell Lieutenant Loire to fire a volley of our own to prevent the retreat! MEN! TO ME!" Even as the flagbearer hastily brought up the pole flying the red flag, Count Ambry was already vaulting into his saddle, ready to lead the charge on the retreating enemy.

That was when the second wave struck.

From the west suddenly came another trumpet call, and more soldiers seemingly erupted from the ground, throwing off the covers of grass that they had been hiding under and revealing the sloped pits that they had been waiting in. From the city came a fourth volley of arrows, and this time more Ambrian soldiers fell as they turned to face the western threat. The King's Soldiers who had been retreating before turned abruptly in their tracks and once again charged at the Ambrian forces, and Count Bane abruptly found his forces caught in an attack from two sides. Snarling in frustration, he whirled to face his flagbearer to signal a retreat, only to find the man as a crumpled form on the grass floor, an arrow through his throat. Count Bane literally leaped off his horse and raised the yellow flag himself; two long blasts of a horn was his response. The Ambrian contingent began to draw back, and as the Count himself decapitated yet another enemy soldier, he wondered where his son was.

* * *

The wooden cage came to a gradual halt outside the immense double doors of Slom Castle. As the soldiers pushed the door slowly out of the way, it was apparent that it was badly in need of maintenance. The cage lurched once more into motion, and Count Ambry glared at the wooden doors in disgust. As he rode through the halls of the castle, he found little to his liking. Gone were the flowers and the tapestries that were the doings of the late Queen, who had insisted that the castle had been too "dreary" and "major refurnishings were in order". Gone were the valuable paintings and statues that had been gifts to the late King by travelling merchants. In their stead were little pots which emitted cloying yellow smoke, filling the hall with a sickening haze that filled the lungs and made it difficult to breathe. Not a servant was in sight; perhaps they had all been let go, as no cleaning seemed to be required by the current "King"'s rule, as was evidenced by the amount of dust and cobwebs filling up the corners. Truly, nothing remained of the old Slom Castle that had been a joy to visit before.

When the wooden cage reached the doors to the throne room, the cage stopped once again. The door to their prison was flung open unceremoniously, and the solders ordered the two prisoners to step out of the prison. Count Ambry crouched by his son's side.

"He is not conscious. He will not be able to get up."

"None of our business. Get out, and we'll drag him there if we have to." This from a young upstart. Judging from his voice and from his looks, he could not have been more than eighteen, but he already had a sneering, nasal quality to his voice that spoke of arrogance. Two soldiers reached into the cage and, grabbing the Count by both his arms, forced the count out of the cage and between them. Another two grabbed Banehallow in a similar manner, his feet dragging along the stained carpet due to his height, and in this fashion the duo entered the throne room. The throne room was devoid of people, other than soldiers who lined the long pathway to the throne and the King who sat on his throne.

And Lieutenant Loire.

* * *

"The King wishes to see you."

Those were the only words that the soldiers had offered him as they tossed him into the cage, a wooden contraption that had not been around in the previous King's time. Count Ambry gasped in pain, and fell to his knees as his right leg gave way from under him. Dots floated across his eyes, and he fought to keep them from blotting out his vision entirely. When he had his senses under control again, he became aware of another man's breathing in the cage. Glancing up, he saw a sight that stopped his heart.

"My son!" Lunging across the small cage, he went to his son's side as swiftly as he could. Banehallow's face was badly bruised and battered, and his armor had been torn off him in several places. Where his flesh showed, innumerable cuts shone angrily under the moonlight. "What could have done this to you...?" he murmured as he cradled his son's head.

Banehallow stirred, and opened his eyes. His deep black eyes had gone bloodshot, and when he spoke it was with an obvious effort.

"Father... ware... treach..ry..." Was all he could manage before he faded once more into unconsciousness.

But Count Bane only knew what it meant now.

* * *

"Treachery!" He lunged against his restraints, straining to reach the man who had betrayed him.

"You traitor, how could you betray the house of your anc-" Count Ambry's words were cut off as one of his captors gave him a solid backhand; he felt the pop of his jaw, and a searing pain followed immediately after. Tasting blood in his mouth, Bane could do nothing but pant. Loire smiled, an unpleasant curling of the lips. The King smiled as well, but his face was vacant and his expression vapid, as if his mind was elsewhere at the moment. Glancing once at his monarch, Loire's smiled deepened, and he took the few steps down to stand in front of his captives.

"But my lord, I have not. You are the one who has betrayed the house of your ancestors and broken your ancestral vows of fealty, for are you not the man who knelt here in this very room and gave your loyalty to your King? And now you plan to kill him, and replace him. What tragedy!" Loire's voice was mocking, and brought a rage to Count Bane's that he had never experienced before. He roared, and struggled once more against his captors. This time, however, Loire backhanded him personally. "Manners, my lord! You stand in front of your King!"

"You have no right, none at all, to even call him your King. You are a traitor to your people, and your sins shall weigh heavy upon your soul!" Bane's reply was furious, shaking with rage.

"Oh no, my lord, I assure you I have not betrayed my King in any way. For is it not a vassal's duty to ensure his King gets what he wants, when he wants it?" As he spoke, Loire casually picked up a pot of acrid smoke, and brought it closer to the King, who inhaled deeply and sighed in stupified satisfaction. Loire's grin grew wider, and he replaced the pot in its original position.

"As for you, my lord, you deserve a punishment befitting your status. Receive your punishment!" The last words were spoken in an officious tone, and the soldiers holding both Count Bane and Banehallow forced both of them to their knees. Holding forth a piece of imperial parchment, Loire unfolded it and began to read.

"Bane Ambry the Fourth and his son, Banehallow Ambry. The two of you are guilty of treason of the highest order, and you shall be sentenced to death. Your family will be subject to similar punishment, affecting those of the Ambrian line up to thrice removed. The form of execution..." Here, Loire paused, and lowered the parchment to his side.

"By wolf."

* * *

_By wolf?_

Banehallow was only marginally conscious when he heard the words. This was no manner of execution that he had heard of before; was he intending to feed them to wolves? But this did not seem likely; wolves were not native to the land of Slom. He suddenly felt a heavy hand on his head, and he glanced up to see Loire looming ominously over him.

And then he felt pain, pain worse than anything he had ever felt.

A roar ripped forth from his lips, as he felt his body structure snapping and crunching into something inhuman. He could hear his father cry out, but the words did not register in his head; the pain covered everything else. He could feel nothing, hear nothing, see nothing except for whatever torture that Loire had devised. Surely, it was killing him.

As suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. Banehallow tried to stand, but found that he could not. So he tried for the next best alternative: to at least steady himself on all fours, and he found that this could be done with surprising ease. He raised his head to look at his father, who was staring at him in horror. He then realized he was free of his captors; for some reason, they had let him go. Not only that, his father was released as well, but he was making no move to assault the traitor Loire. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out of his mouth was a low growl. As he looked down at his body, he saw that he was covered all over in purple fur, and that his hands were not hands but-

Paws.

He had been turned into a wolf.

Loire's maniacal laughter snapped his attention to the man. Now Banehallow knew why the soldiers had released them; they were probably just as frightened and shocked as he was. When Loire's laughter subsided, he commanded, "Now, my pet, tear out the throat of this man! You are my creation, and your spirit is bound to me!"

Banehallow felt something pull him from within, pull his head to stare at his father, who had a sorrowful look on his face. A snarl started from deep within his throat, one that Banehallow had no intention of starting. He felt himself gather into a crouch and his muscles bunch, ready to leap at his own father's throat. He fought desperately to resist.

"You!" Loire ordered, "Drag his head back! Give my new pet a decent target!" Obediently, a soldier grabbed a fistful of Count Bane's hair and drew it back roughly. At this, something snapped in Banehallow. He leaped.

* * *

The wolf that was once his son leaped, and Count Bane shut his eyes, unwilling to see the image of his own son choking the life out of him. He opened them again quickly, however, when he felt the grip on his hair loosen, and the soldier behind him gave a gurgled cry. Whipping his head around, he saw Banehallow close his jaws around the man, and with one final clench of his powerful jaws, the man shuddered and lay still. The wolf shook his great mane free of the man's throat, and dropped heavily to the ground.

Loire had stumbled back from the scene in dismay and horror. Snarling, Banehallow turned on the man who had transformed him into a beast, but before he could make that jump one of his original captors scored a deep cut on Banehallow's left flank. He yelped in pain, and turned around to face the soldiers as adversaries first. Unable to control himself, Count Bane started to laugh. Loire turned on him. "What are you laughing about, old man!" he demanded.

"Loire, you believe yourself intelligent, powerful because you traffic in magic. How you have hidden this from me, I will never know. But know this. I have met King Salimas the Second, before he came to this. As a youth, he was powerful; he was already skilled in the crafts you seek to master. You have kept him on a leash with your drugs and your poisons, but for how long? And now you have simply proven your ineptitude, when you made the folly of seeking to control a man of House Ambry. Now, your own mistakes are coming back to bite you. How can I not laugh?"

Loire glared at the laughing man in seething fury. "Well, if I should die in this-" Loire drew his sword, "_-you_ will die with me!"

* * *

Banehallow heard the words, and quickly hamstringed the last soldier he had been fighting. Spinning back, he saw Loire run a sword through his father's body. With a howl of anger and despair, Banehallow raced toward the man who had caused so much evil, and clamped his jaws tight on his throat, not letting go until the man was finally still.

"Son."

Shaking himself free of Loire's corpse, Banehallow loped to his father's side. Laying a hand on his muzzle, Count Bane pulled his son's face closer to his own.

"Son. Go. Leave this place. House Ambry... cannot end here. You must... seek... justice, for us. You must... live." Count Bane forced out the words, each word softer and weaker than the last. As he finished with his last words, Banehallow lifted his great muzzle and let loose a howl of utter loss and despair. In response, the throne room doors burst open, and many soldiers came flooding into the room. Banehallow bit off his howl and sped off at full speed past the astonished men, past the hallways of acrid smoke, past the still-open double doors of the castle and into the night.

* * *

On the night the great kingdom of Slom fell, Banehallow watched from the same ridge his father had so many years ago, as mayhem broke out from within the castle walls. His time as a wolf had heightened his senses, and he could both smell the smoke and hear the screams even from this distance. He watched as "justice" was meted out for him, but he was not satisfied; this "justice" should have been carried out by himself, on his own, and now it had been stolen. His years had been lived for revenge, and he would not allow it to be stolen by anyone.

And suddenly, Banehallow's head filled with an echoing voice. The voice was strange, yet alluring; he could not help but listen to it. The voice told him to come, come to where it was, to join it and fight for it. And in return, Banehallow would be promised revenge on the man who had stolen his justice. The voice faded, and Banehallow turned away from the burning castle. The large man crouched on all fours and sat on his haunches; moments later, a violent red wolf let loose a long howl before running off, blurring into the night.

The Lycanthrope answered the call.

* * *

A/N: HOLY CRAP this one took me AGES TO WRITE. As you can see, I decided to scrap the whole idea of "making it several chapters long" because it would open a can of worms; each hero would eventually be getting their own 10-chapter-worth of stories, and I seriously don't have the time or energy for that. I honestly didn't intend to finish this in the first place, but it irked me that I had something left undone, so I finished it in one sitting. I apologize for the long wait, I've been super busy with life and school and only managed to find a bit of spare time to write this now. I'm also sorry for the ending, I don't really like it but I was running out of creative juice at the time.

You will also notice this time that I deviated slightly from the actual bio; in the actual story the King runs him through, while here I got the "magician" to do it. Slom is a featured kingdom in many character bios, and the Mad King is a very important character, so if I ever get the urge to do anything else with any bio that involves Slom or the Mad King, I assure you this story here is linked and relevant. This is my own concept, not DotA 2's, so... yup.

I'm not sure if any more of these will come out though, so don't get your hopes up I guess? :X Sorry for that too.

See ya.


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